Month: July 2018

The Blood of Old Souls

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Part III: Cherish

Cherish
The Sick Child: Courtesy of Edvard Munch

Trigger Warning: This short story, fictional work will be semi-graphic in nature regarding pedophilia/familial child rape, death & dying, and choosing to end the life of one’s child. If this is something you think you should not be reading, please, do not continue.

Marci sits at her daughter’s bedside. Tubes, lines, beeps, buzzes, and everything else that disrupts the child’s rest is alive and doing its job. She hangs her head slowly, embracing the trembling hands of her only daughter — peace is nowhere to be found. The room smells of overcooked death and analgesics. Every doctor within their specialty has had their say — they plead with Marci to “pull the cord,” to let her youngest go in peace. A rare form of bone cancer, Ewing sarcoma, is having its final say on their daughter’s life. Marci thinks about the decision, her husband is opposed. She whispers to Cherish, letting her know her pain.

“It’s a decision I never wanted to make. What mother wants to kill her child? What mother can? Your Daddy — heavy in his groveling, begs me night and day not to let you go. But, is this living? Cherish, are you alive in there?”

Cherish turns her head but her eyes remain closed. A small breath of air leaves her chapped lips. She tries to speak, but nothing comes forth. Marci continues. She is praying to her daughter’s trembling hands instead of the God she has known for forty years. She is praying to the monitors, to the adjustable bed, to the sanctity of this very moment between her and her daughter, but not to her God.

“Cherish, sweet baby, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand. Squeeze Mommy’s hand. Just one squeeze and I will know what to do. Just one squeeze, please. Please, baby.”

There is no response.

No hand squeezing, not even a faint understanding of what is being said. Cherish is dwelling in two worlds — caught up between the souls of the ancestors of Marci and the ancestors of her father, Lincoln. They are arguing over the young girl’s soul — who gets to have it when she is gone? Marci continues, the room in its quiet reveal, suddenly becomes noisy. Lincoln walks in with their son Colin. They come bearing flowers and a teddy bear. Cherish stirs in the sterilized bed, twitching her feet, and slowly moving her head.

Something is wrong.

“We stopped at the gift shop for Cherish. Colin picked out the teddy bear. I picked out the flowers. How’s our fighter doing?”

Marci picks up on Cherish’s reaction to Lincoln’s entrance to the room. She is squeezing her hand. A mother knows. A mother always knows when something is wrong. Colin has noticed that his sister is having what seems like a fit — the last functioning conversation without words before… before she dies.

“Mom, what’s going on? Is Cherish trying to live? What is happening!?”

“I don’t know, honey. I think she is trying to tell me something. I think she is trying to say something important.”

Lincoln steps closer, he swipes the bit of hair hanging on his daughter’s forehead to the side. Softly, he leans in and places a kiss on her cold cheek.

“Daddy’s here, baby.”

Cherish’s vital signs spark, then plummet. Her body convulses, the room darkens, and everything not bolted down swirls and hovers about the family for five seconds. She squeezes her mother’s hand again. She squeezes much harder this time. A child dying to get away from a perverted father. A child begging for death to come as an escape. A child, with no words, only the squeeze of her mother’s hand.

“I hear you, baby. I hear you.”

Marci kisses her daughter, looks at Lincoln with undefinable rage, and before he can utter one word, she pulls the bedside monitor’s cord. She pulls every tube, cord, and PICC-line sustaining her daughter’s life. Marci is unsure, but as she looks at Cherish one last time, she thinks she sees her smile. The ancestors fighting over her daughter’s soul appear, not only do they take Cherish—

They come for Lincoln too.

Originally published on February 111, 2018, via Medium.

The Blood of Old Souls

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Part II: Markos

Markos
Courtesy of Mystical Raven

Markos is a 5th Generation Charmer. His father, Gregos, taught him how to win the hearts of women before he could walk. His purpose in life is etched in stone — a fate that he will soon find out is the calling he never would have accepted if the choice was his. Deep in the bowels of their illustrious castle, Markos rejects his fate. Gregos makes him regret the decision.

The cellar is cold and dank. The candles are lit in their holders, shining a treacherous light in the belly of the Torgulos Castle. Gregos stands with a shimmering sword, his hands trembling from the night air. He is armed for battle but there is no war. Markos approaches his father — stumbles into his path, cautious, but ready to denounce the throne. His heart is somewhere else. He begins his plea.

“Father, I am not built for the ways of your world. I want to live a life of my own. For my twentieth birthday, I seek your blessing in granting me this wish.”

Gregos sways on his bony legs, sucks in the crisp air of the cellar, and mumbles loud enough for Markos’ ears only.

“Markos, you are a Charmer. For decades the men in our family have taken the hearts of women for our feast. It is your calling. You will answer it.”

One did not argue with Gregos Torgulos, but Markos was brave.

He knew that his love for a special woman’s heart depended on his loyalty. He would not kill his love and feast on her heart, even if she was willing. He decides that his father’s beliefs can never be his own.

“Father, there is a woman. I have charmed her. She is ready to give me everything. All I need to do is ask. I want her heart, but not to kill her. I want… I want to marry her. I want us to leave this village and build our own happiness away from the gloom of Torgul. I will only ask once more. Your blessing, will you grant it?”

A powerful clap of thunder spreads across the night sky. The sound clangs deep in the walls of the castle. A lightning bolt scatters away from the heavens and lands on the castle’s roof. A wind rushes in briefly and puts out each candle in the cellar. Gregos forms his words, he grips the sword tighter, and repeats his command.

“You will only ask once more?! My child, who do you think you are? You are my son, but I will just as soon feed you to the lions as I would a peasant touching my armor. You will obey our heritage. You will take your woman’s heart and devour it. There is nothing else to discuss.”

In the dark crevices of the cellar, Markos sweeps in under his father, commandeers his sword, and unlatches the breastplate. In a fit of terror, he signals Ana. She appears out of the shadows, unhinges her jaw, smacks her lips, and digs Gregos’ heart out effortlessly with her venomous teeth.

“That’s it, Ana. Consume it. All of it. He will not stop us. He cannot stop us.”

Markos gazes upon his dying father, his eyes rolling into the back of his head and legs shaking vigorously.

He’s dead — not dead.

Markos leans in, puffs up his chest, and whispers to his father, “I hate that you made me do this. All I wanted was your blessing.”

Gregos bites his lower lip, clenches his teeth, and says, “You are my undoing. The ancestors will avenge my death. The blood of old souls lives in me.”

Originally published on January 24, 2018, via Medium.

The Blood Of Old Souls

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Part I: Delphine

delphine
Courtesy of Life Coach Code

She stood back in disgust — stepping further away from the bed. Her hands are shaking, sweat is dripping down her temples. The room is silent except for the faint breaths of her Great-Grandmother, Delphine. Channing threw the pillow to the left of her in a fit of angst and fear.

What did she do?

Delphine had asked her to kill her, to take away the pain, but Channing was too afraid and made the decision to transfer Delphine’s wishes to someone else. But, there was no time and Delphine wanted Channing to end it. She assured Channing that if she did not carry out the task that she would come back to haunt her until she drew her last breath. At the age of eighty-one, Delphine had lived a long, healthy, active, and curious life until she was diagnosed with Stage 4 Multiple Myeloma, a form of cancer that stripped away her youthful spirit. Delphine was given a measly two months to live, however, that was seven months ago.

The pain is becoming unbearable. Every day there is a new ache, something for Delphine to suffer through. Her ribs are sore. Her throat pulsates and aggravates her and it hurts to swallow. Her eyes leak tears that will not stop falling. Channing gives her around-the-clock care. She promised her own dying mother that she would do whatever her Great-Grandmother wanted and she intended to keep that promise until Delphine saddled her with the heavy responsibility of killing her three weeks before today.

Now, here they are, in a room crammed full of ancestors living in the walls — taking up space. Channing, standing at Delphine’s bedside, breathing heavily, trying not to cry. Did she do it right? She sorted the pills just like Delphine advised. She crushed them and mixed them in water. She counted to twenty, then covered her face with the pillow, pressing into her, cutting off her air supply and damaging blood flow to her brain. For three minutes, she held down until she saw Delphine’s limbs droop beside her. But she could still feel her breathing — hear her. She placed her right index finger under Delphine’s nose for two seconds, air met the tip of it. In the gloomy room, Delphine gasps.

Channing grabs the duct tape from the nightstand and applies an ample strip over Delphine’s mouth, then her nose. She takes the pillow to her colorless face and presses as hard as she can again.

One, Mississippi. Two, Mississippi. Three —

Delphine laid there. Her eyes, solid like marbles, white as chalk. Channing breaks down to her knees and begins sobbing. She can hear her mother’s voice chanting, “The blood of old souls. The blood of old souls. The blood of old souls.” The walls cry blood — each corner confesses its sins, yelling out to Channing for a second death. Delphine’s body cracks into multiple pieces, sinks into the bed, and disappears. The last words the souls of the ancestors moan are,

“You’re next…”

Originally published on January 14, 2018, via Medium.

July’s Visual Verse Prompt

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This month’s Visual Verse prompt is a titillating one. From just one glance at the photo, so many scenarios came to me, but I settled on one that just would not stop bopping about in my head. It is entitled “Rewind.” I will post a snippet of it here and then direct you to the poem in its entirety toward the end of this post. There’s still time if you want to submit for this month’s prompt. Writers, make it happen. Use that creativity of yours and get on it, doggone it.

Rewind

She pressed PLAY and watched him
sit back casually, dreaming
of better days.
Her hair, pinned up, her eyes–
faithful to his stare.
She was a golden arc, welcoming
his entrance.
FAST FORWARD to their wedding day
and the two of them had no reason
to STOP
Every dream was finally coming true.

Or so they thought.
Her first attempt at making him
a father, her, a mother, failed.
That’s what the doctor called it,
“a failed attempt.”
And the second, and the third.
And every breath she took
felt like the last.

As always, many thanks to Visual Verse and to those of you reading. I truly appreciate you stopping by. For the rest of the poem, please go here. 

Peace and blessings.